The Long Vacation
by n1ght3lf
Summary: Voldemort, having conquered the British Isles, set his sights toward France. However, an ancient adversary is waiting. What happens when Flight-from-Death rushes toward Death?


The Long Vacation

A work of Harry Potter fanfiction by nightelf.

All Harry Potter characters created by J.K. Rowling; all other original characters created by nightelf. All rights reserved. I ask that you not post any part of this work in any other location without permission.

One last note: It's marked as mature for Death Eater Reasons. If you're not mature, please don't read.

* * *

They'd tried everything.

They'd lost.

Harry Potter looked at the dingy apartment that had become their hiding place, trying desperately not to let the tears show. They'd tried everything. They'd hunted for the damn horcruxes; even destroyed most of them, at least as far as they could tell. Hufflepuff's Cup was taken care of; they'd even sneaked into Hogwarts to destroy Ravenclaw's Diadem.

Unfortunately, they didn't have any resources left. Voldemort had come into the open, cracking down on families that had opposed him. The result was a political landscape much changed. There were no 'light' families anymore; all of the families that had stood against Voldemort had either fled or died. The opposition was on the run; any resistance was being hunted down.

Which just left him and Hermione as the only two left. To make matters worse for them, the bastards had even given the Prime Minister the imperius. As a result, Muggle Britain now viewed the pair as Public Enemies Number 1 and 1A. There was no place left for them to go; if they showed themselves anywhere, they would be recognized. Their last three food runs had been under the shadow of the invisibility cloak – and they knew both of them couldn't make it out of Britain under the cloak.

Which left this one abandoned apartment building – one small bit of earth. They were tired, they were frustrated… and their time was done. They'd fought their war, and they'd lost – badly.

"So… what do we do now?" Hermione asked.

Harry took a deep breath. There was really only one thing left to do. After a moment, he walked over to his bag, pulled out his invisibility cloak, and handed the silvery material to her. "Go back to your family, Hermione." His eyes were moist with unshed tears. "Go back to your life."

She blinked. "W-what?"

He swallowed; it took every effort to keep from crying. "You can get out, Hermione. Follow your parents to Australia; make a new life for yourself." He bit his lip, tasting the metallic tang of blood. "Please, Hermione. Take it. Get out of here. Forget Magical Britain ever existed." He shuddered. "For what it's worth, I'm sorry."

Something flared in Hermione's eyes at the words. "Oh, no you don't! You listen to me, Harry James Potter! I chose to fight them! I chose to help you out! No one made me; no one twisted my arm; no one ordered me to fight. I did it because it was the right thing to do." Her gaze softened. "Ron and I knew what we were getting into. We knew there might be a price to pay. And we would have paid it again – a hundred times over."

A heavy silence hung over the two for what seemed an eternity. Harry couldn't say anything. He'd gotten his best friends killed; what could he say that could make it all better?

After a moment, Hermione sat up, startled. "Harry?"

Harry blinked at Hermione's voice. "Yes, Hermione?"

Hermione tilted her head to one side. "Did you ever want a life that was… I don't know… normal? Away from Dark Lords and Snatchers and Death Eaters?"

Harry smiled wistfully. "All the time, Hermione. All the time."

Hermione took a deep breath. Harry's eyes widened at her expression. He knew that look in her eyes – that wide-eyed, seeing-everything stare. It was the look she got when she was trying to work through a difficult problem – and approaching a solution.

"What are you thinking, Hermione?"

"There are certain rules," Hermione continued. "Certain laws that have to be obeyed. We cannot transgress those rules, no matter what, no matter how much we may wish otherwise." She nodded, a clear sign she'd found her solution. "But we can escape this. Live in a world where a certain dark lord will never, ever reach us. We can live our lives in peace." She said the words as though they were a foreign tongue. "Peace, Harry."

Harry blinked. "How?"

Hermione smiled. "I'm going to need a little help on this."

* * *

Lord Voldemort stood at the cliffs of Dover, a beatific smile on his face.

Two years ago, Dublin had fallen after a six-month campaign. All of the British and Irish magical communities had been united and consolidated under his banner. Every enclave – every community – every magical tradition in the British Isles had been conquered. None of his rivals – not Dumbledore, not Potter, not Longbottom, not Murphy – remained alive and breathing. The muggle governments were sufficiently under control to not be a problem.

He had his kingdom. But he knew… it wasn't enough. It was never enough. For every success, another failure loomed. Potter had died, but taken the Elder Wand and most of Voldemort's horcruxes with him. Tir na Nog had fallen, but Queen Fand and her court had faded from existence rather than submit to him.

Success, then failure. This next endeavor would give only success; he would make sure of it.

Around him were hundreds of his finest Death Eaters. Some had been with him since the first rise; some had joined during his second rule; some had joined his banner as his influence spread. All of them were absolutely loyal to him and his cause.

And he was about to give them a new cause. He gestured out to the Channel behind him.

"Out there, a scant few miles away, lay France. A magical community in rebellion from our wisdom. They want us wiped off the map; they want us kneeling at their feet! They have been a threat to us time and time again. They are the obstacle to our place in the sun."

He sneered. "It is time to take our place in the sun. This is our next target, good witches and wizards: France!"

His Death Eaters cheered; Voldemort smiled. Britain was safe, but not critical. France was critical. No magical government could ignore him after he took Europe. He would become the preeminent magical power on the planet.

And the magical world would be remade in his image.

* * *

In that moment, Draco Malfoy knew that he was well and truly fucked.

He'd recovered well enough from his initial failure. Charged with killing Albus Dumbledore, he'd hesitated – and his reputation had suffered as a result. Ireland had made up for his cowardice; having wizards and witches casting spells to kill him had done wonders for his squeamishness. His snatcher team had broken the defenses at Doaned Alley in Belfast, located the famed enclave of Tir na Nog, and kidnapped the grandchildren of the Irish Minister for Magic, bringing an accelerated end to the conflict. As a reward for their efforts, the Dark Lord had named Father regent over Ireland, with the intention that the position become hereditary.

Draco had no problem with that. Irish redheads were **hot**. And to the winners went the spoils.

French women, by comparison, were like cool water next to the fire of Ireland's women. Having sex with an Irish woman was frenzied, passionate, like casting and controlling Fiendfyre; having sex with a French woman was a soft, slow, sensual, almost maddeningly tender act, like chanting through a complex ritual.

And he suspected he would have plenty of time in France to experience that act.

His plan with France was deceptively simple. With Tir na Nog, he'd simply followed the evacuations; all of them led to one point, and the main body of the Dark Lord's army did the rest. He knew he'd need a different tactic, as the French had so many enclaves in the Alps and the Pyrenees.

He needed allies. And, by giving gold and promising a place within the Dark Lord's regime, he was able to sway a couple of the veela clans to his cause. Promises of mutual assistance between the veela would provide him with the locations of all of the enclaves; from there, he could dismantle them at his leisure, or call the Dark Lord's forces for those enclaves too heavily reinforced for a snatcher team.

After his negotiations, he'd decided to stay in Calais for a few days. He needed to scout the city for the upcoming invasion, and he decided that he'd earned a reward for his efforts. His method of seduction was always the same: chat a woman up, slip a little Spanish Mosquito into her drink, wait until she started to feel hot and bothered, take her back into his room for a night of activities, then give her a memory scrambler to make her forget the day. He'd tried using the Imperius, but found it worse than useless; what was the point of sex if the other person wasn't wanting it? So he made them want it – want it badly – then wipe their minds of the event later.

The raven-haired goddess who entered the Randy Nundu on that night caught his attention immediately. Black hair formed a rich mane cascading down her shoulders; laughing green eyes danced with mischief. Her midnight-black robes and regal bearing screamed of a pureblood heritage; her wand, a custom work, was the exact same shade as a dying rose. His eyes danced around the curves of her hips, her elegant hands as they held a glass of firewine, a bosom that was in perfect proportion to her body.

This was a woman he wanted to know. He moved to speak with her, using the French his mother had taught her. She was precisely his type: a proper French family, educated at Beauxbatons, traveling to get a lay of the land, perhaps hunting for a mate while she traveled.

He needed little convincing. He slipped the Spanish Mosquito into her firewine while she wasn't looking, so she would need little convincing. The moment the flush reached her features, he knew it was time.

Sex with her was indescribable. If Irish women were like fire and French women were like cool water, this woman was like being burned at the stake. The fire started slowly, then began to spread throughout his entire body. Even better, it didn't seem to stop; she seemed to control him with such a deft touch that it kept going on and on, even while not letting up in intensity.

He wasn't sure what happened; most of it was a blur. It had left him so exhausted that he collapsed within seconds after spending himself.

Sunlight woke him up the next morning; he blinked, then cursed himself for his carelessness. He could only hope that his paramour simply viewed last night as normal attraction, rather than something created with potions.

"Good morning, Draco Malfoy."

He gulped at her soft alto voice. He hadn't told her his real name; he had been operating in France using a cover identity. That she knew who he was meant his cover was blown.

How badly, he didn't know. He looked around, making sure that French aurors weren't flooding the room, then sat up.

"Who are you?"

The woman smiled. Draco noticed, to his disappointment, that she was fully clothed again. "That would be telling. Suffice it to say that a couple of my relatives went to school with you – and managed to escape from your master's little pogrom. So… we decided to make sure that, if such a purge came here, that his Dark Lordyness would pay a price for it. And that, my dear Draco, is where you come in."

She sighed. "To be honest, we wonder why you purebloods even follow that idiot. You do realize he's not a pureblood, right? He was born Tom Marvolo Riddle, the son of the last member of the Gaunt family and an enspelled muggle. Here he is, ruling over purebloods and leading them to their deaths, when he isn't a pureblood himself! Ah, well. Inbreeding will tell, I guess."

His eyes scanned the room, looking for his wand, spare, and emergency portkeys, hoping for a way to escape. She smiled, twirled his wand in her fingers, and gestured to the fireplace.

"Oh, you don't have to worry about that. I had some fresh clothes brought in for you. Oh, and I wouldn't recommend apparation; that could be… messy. As for your wand…" She raised the hawthorn wood up, to show him. "I think I'll mail it back to Malfoy Manor. I'm sure Astoria would love to hear how you lost your wand."

Draco frowned. "So is that what this is? Blackmail?"

The woman's green eyes danced. "Of a sort. You have no idea what happened last night, do you?"

Draco searched his head. "Well… I remember us having sex… I think I collapsed after that."

She nodded slowly. "That was expected. Sometimes tantric magic can be… intense."

Draco paled. "T… Tantric magic?"

She grinned, and nodded. "One of my ancestors came up with the technique. She reasoned that the intensity of a magical coupling, combined with some directed words, could have the force of a magical Vow, but far more powerful. Basically, you swore your magic, your manhood, and your life to me. Meaning, if I give you an order and you don't obey, no matter how crazy, no matter how impossible… you could lose any or all of them. Granted, this was never tested, so we don't know if losing your manhood would make you sexless or a woman, but it should be fun to find out!"

"My… my…" He lifted the covers to look at his member. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary – but he knew that could change. He gulped as she looked into his eyes.

"My first order for you, Draco Malfoy. If you ever reveal the events of the last 24 hours or the next 24 hours to any other being, whether intentionally or accidently, I hold your manhood forfeit. If you have already lost your manhood from other reasons, I hold your magic forfeit!" She sneered. "I would recommend brushing up on your occlumency, little dragon."

Draco felt his magic respond to her command, and knew it was no bluff. He looked wildly, wondering if it was safe to jump out the window. The mystery woman waved her wand; ribbons floated to ensnare his hands against the bedposts.

She grinned. "Now. My second order for you, Draco Malfoy. From this moment on, if you ever knowingly have sexual intercourse with a woman other than your wife under the influence of any chemical, potion, or spell designed to increase her libido or impair her judgment, I hold your manhood forfeit. If you have already lost your manhood from other reasons, I hold your magic forfeit!"

Draco felt the familiar swirl of magic, indicating that the order had again been accepted. He struggled against his bonds, hoping for some form of escape.

"And, for your third order, Draco Malfoy. You must kill Nagini, the current familiar of Lord Voldemort, within three months of today. If you fail to kill Nagini within three months of today, I hold both your manhood and your magic forfeit!"

The swirl of magic tickled Draco as his body accepted the vow. He looked up at her nervously. "How am I supposed to kill Nagini?"

She shrugged. "That, I suspect, would be your problem. He's a snake; surely it's not that difficult to kill a snake, is it? Here's a hint, little dragon: basilisk venom does wonders." She ripped off the covers of the bed.

"And now, for the fourth order, Draco Malfoy." She held up a recording crystal, and tapped it to activate. "You are going to answer every question I give you within the next twenty-four hours with the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth as you understand it. If you fail to do so within four minutes after the question is asked, you will hear a soft buzzing in your ear from your magic, indicating that you have not given me the full truth. If you fail to do so within five minutes after the question is asked, I hold your manhood forfeit. If you have already lost your manhood for other reasons, I hold your magic forfeit!" A predator's smile graced the mystery woman's features. "Now. When do Voldemort's Death Eaters plan to invade France…?"

Draco gulped.

* * *

Calais was burning.

Michael frowned. They were five days early. Apparently the French had spooked the Death Eaters into an early invasion.

It was a quiet rule among Michael's clan: Never, ever get a residence in a magical community – but be sure to get one within sight. Normal, proper wizards were never to be trusted. Wizards were creatures of war; they took magic's gift, the beauty of creation, and perverted it into the worst forms of destruction. It was necessary for any magic user to interact with the magical communities, but to become entangled in the wizarding world was to court death.

He smiled quietly at his own joke.

Grandfather had warned him of what was to come from the moment he'd opened his potions shop. Voldemort would never be satisfied with the British Isles; eventually, the monster would turn his sights across the Channel. As such, he should always have a bolthole, always a way out. Any cursory search of his blood purity would yield nothing, because he had no blood purity; by the rules of the blood purists, he was the worst of the worst – a mutt. The veela blood gave him good looks, the werewolf blood in him strength and enhanced senses, and his 'normal' wizarding ancestors frightening intelligence, long life, and magical power to burn.

He always found it humorous that his 'normal' ancestors were probably the most abnormal of the bunch. Fortunately, his grandfather and grandmother accepted all of their children, regardless of parentage. They'd even been accepting of his father, a werewolf since childhood, once Mother had fallen in love with him; Grandmother always brewed Wolfsbane for his father, and was on the rotation of people who kept him company in the dungeons on full moons.

The enclave had needed an advance guard, someone to be their eyes and ears in Calais. He'd wanted to see a bit more of the world, so he'd taken his Potions mastery and volunteered. He'd watched as the blood purists had become more vocal in France, as British wizards had gone on 'tourist trips' into the country. He'd notified the enclave the moment Draco Malfoy had entered the country, and chuckled when Cousin Amelia told him of Draco's fate.

At the other end were his neighbors, the people who he interacted with on a daily basis. It constantly amazed him how blind the wizards were to what was coming. They had no clue, not even a glimpse. People who were certain to die once Voldemort arrived carried on as though nothing would happen, as though a monster like Voldemort would be satisfied with the British Isles.

Grandfather taught him better. The moment violence broke out in Rue de Waitier, he shuttered his office, went out the back of his shop, and stepped out into his apartment in mundane Calais. Books and clothes were packed with a flick of the wrist; within seconds, he was ready to go back home, for the first time in two years.

Home. Finally, home. The women there – his sisters, aunts, cousins - would drive him crazy, but it beat Death Eaters any day of the week.

* * *

"… And in conclusion, I support the recommendation from Clan Narcisse that we give both Clan Lys and Clan Narcisse succor, and allow them retreat into our enclaves. The sooner we do this, the more lives we will shield from Voldemort's madmen."

Alya of the Clan Seraphin sat quietly as she heard other members of the Veela Council discuss the "Voldemort situation", as it was known. She'd been quietly listening for the past two days, gleaning information on each of the clans and where they stood.

Fools. Fools, the lot of them. Fools in so many painful ways. Their plans were good ones… except for a few things that they hadn't taken into account.

The Council Chair, a matronly woman from Clan Orchidee with hair shining like gold, stood at her podium. "Does anyone else have anything they wish to say with regard to the recommendation that Clan Lys and Clan Narcisse be given safe haven in the enclaves of the other Clans?"

Alya stood up.

The rest of the room turned dead silent. The number of times her clan, Clan Seraphin, had spoken in Council during its centuries of service could be numbered on one hand. They voted their conscience, and no less and no more. They hated political games.

And they were about to shut one down – hard.

"Clan Seraphin has always provided succor to all beings at its enclave, regardless of Clan; indeed, regardless of species. The only requirement we have ever given is that the people going in will not betray the enclave or its inhabitants. Ironically, because of this requirement, we cannot give succor to Clan Lys and Clan Narcisse."

She took a deep breath, and handed sets of papers to her immediate right and left, as well as to the Council Chair. From the moment she began passing, she estimated that she had roughly a minute and a half before certain clans got their copy. She was betting that at least one of those clans would never see it. "Because of our ties to other species, we have long monitored the situation in the British Isles. We have seen who their disgusting Death Eaters have dealt with, who they have sent to spy within France, who has welcomed them in France to discuss and to deal."

One minute left. She could see the wide eyes and gasps from her neighbors as they glanced at her handout. She kept her eyes on Abigail of Clan Lys, Michele of Clan Narcisse, and Helen of Clan Plumeria. Already their faces were turning pale.

It was time to turn the pressure up a notch. She started by reaching into her bag and pulling out a small disc of skin and blond hair; she dumped the scalp on the ground, in front of the podium. She took a quick breath, fingered her wand in its holster, and continued.

"First of all, two days ago a member of Clan Narcisse – indeed, the daughter of Michele herself – attempted to gain Elysium at our enclave. As per our standard procedures, it was uncovered that this clan member, a full-blooded veela, was sent with orders from her mother to infiltrate the enclave – with the intention of sell–"

 _"MURDERER!"_

One thing that Alya had learned ages ago: When outnumbered, divide and conquer. If all three learned their treachery had been exposed at the same time, they were likely to all attack simultaneously. On the other hand, if one traitor was goaded into an attack early, the others would be cowed by her defeat. Michele had leapt at the accusation, fireballs blazing, knowing that her treachery was exposed, her own daughter's life forfeit; her only hope was to stop Alya's speech forcefully.

Michele had spent decades with a veela clan that had taken pleasure in its hedonism. Alya had been a part of a veela clan that knew of the oncoming storm. A quick dodge, followed by a stunner, and Michele lay unconscious on the ground.

It likely didn't escape anyone's attention that, at the end of the battle, her eyes were pointed in Abigail's and Helen's direction. She warily moved back to her position.

"Now. If I may be allowed to continue… Besides the attempt of Clan Narcisse to sell our enclave out to Voldemort… Clan Seraphin has made a priority of monitoring certain Death Eaters. Two months ago, before their invasion of Calais had begun, a high-ranking Death Eater, Draco Malfoy, met with several clan heads – specifically, the heads of Clan Narcisse, Clan Lys, and Clan Plumeria. Photographs from those meetings, as well as dates and times, are supplied in the material being disseminated. Clan Narcisse's perfidity is already exposed. However, one wonders why the representatives of Clan Lys and Clan Plumeria have refrained from reporting on their meeting, given its importance at these proceedings." She looked up at the Council Chair. "Clan Seraphin is willing to give more information on what is known, once it is deemed safe to do so."

Abigail's and Helen's eyes were wide with anger. Plumage began to sprout on their necks and arms. Alya had no doubts that they only thing keeping her from a second attack was the unconscious veela sprawled out on the floor – that, and Alya's wand was held within her hands, an instant from action.

Alya chose to wait for a few more seconds; eventually, the handouts arrived in front of them. They now saw what every other veela clan had realized: that those clans had willingly negotiated with the enemy.

"Put simply, my fellow veela, I must urge caution. Grindlewald was a master hunter of veela; many of our clans were wiped out or scattered to the winds. Voldemort, on the other hand, is a rot; he will promise you heaven, even as he prepares your hell. He will divide us, promising power to some, perhaps survival, or freedom, or riches. We of Clan Seraphin use magical methods to sift out those who need the enclave's help from those who would seek its destruction. Non-magical veela have their own methods to protect their enclaves from harm, such as the Vow of Ages; who would dare to betray an enclave when to do so would cost one's beauty? We therefore ask for an unfriendly amendment to the proposal offered by the unconscious representative of Clan Narcisse, and seconded by the Clan Plumeria: that succor be offered to members of displaced clans only after assurances have been made as to the loyalties of those members."

At this last, Abigail and Helen both twitched. Alya had some idea of what they had been promised by Voldemort if they delivered the clans to him. Within three minutes, she had turned their plans to ashes.

She knew the cost. Clan Seraphin would become both a beacon and a target. Its very survival would be at stake. She wondered if she would survive the trip back to the enclave.

Two hundred and eighty years ago, the head of Clan Seraphin had faced a similar decision, to trust in a man who sought their friendship. Alya, as the current representative of that clan, was making the same decision, trusting in the same power. She hoped her decision would be the right one.

At any rate, the treachery was exposed. One task remained.

"Besides that… I must be grim. All of you know that Clan Seraphin does not speak without cause. Therefore, I tell you this: most of your enclaves are not prepared for Voldemort and his tactics. If you cannot counter magical techniques, I would suggest leaving Europe entirely. If you cannot leave your enclaves… I beg you, for the sake of your clans, send your young ones on a long vacation, far away. This is the oncoming storm, and France at least will be devastated before it passes."

A German clan leader spoke up. "And the rest of Europe?"

Alya swallowed. "I don't know."

* * *

Voldemort was, for the first time in decades, truly scared.

He would never show it, of course. He had to appear completely in control; to fail to do so might offer an opportunity an enemy or ambitious subordinate could exploit. They had to think he was as immortal as he claimed to be

He wasn't immortal; not anymore. He was mortal. The thought scared him. Potter had gotten too close to destroying him; his taking control of the muggles had been an act of desperation to keep Potter from acting any further. When he'd heard of Potter's self-destruction in a London apartment, he finally allowed himself to breathe easier.

That was until last week, when Nagini died.

Horcruxes weren't supposed to die. Nagini should have been as immortal as he was. Nevertheless, someone had infiltrated and fed his familiar basilisk venom, one of the few substances that burned the horcrux along with the body. Voldemort was away in France, coordinating with the army there, while Nagini was safe in Malfoy Manor; Nagini should have been safe.

Voldemort growled. Damn the boy! Even in death, Potter tormented him. Potter's efforts would have been in vain if Nagini had lived!

He sighed, and allowed himself the slightest of smiles. The poison Nagini had been given was fast-acting and effective. The punishment he'd forced down Crabbe and Goyle's throats for failing to protect his familiar… they would be speaking of it for years to come. Even now he could hear their screams, asking for release from their torment – release he could tease them with, just to hear them howl for more.

Small comfort for the fools who may have marched him to his death.

Making another horcrux was out of the question, unfortunately. His soul simply wasn't that divisible anymore. Any further attempt would result in his complete sundering; he wouldn't be able to come back after that. No, this was the final hand he had left to play.

Which meant his plans to remake the world would have to proceed apace. No more delays, no more setbacks; he would need all that France could offer if he truly wished to change the world. All would be swept beneath his feet; all would know who the greatest wizard in history was.

All would know his wrath, and come to fear the name Voldemort.

* * *

Alya stopped.

Sighing, she eased herself into a plush leather chair. If she was to die, best to die while comfortable.

"I know you're there, Mister LeGrande. I know you have come fully prepared to kill a mature veela; I know my allure will not help me here. Also, while I believe I am quite capable with a wand and knife, I doubt I am up to the skills of an assassin such as yourself. Therefore, I will dispense with any thought of physical resistance, and get down to business."

She felt the presence tense up slightly. She smiled quietly, crossed her legs, and took a deep breath.

"Mister LeGrande, I'm going to make you an offer. In many ways, it's a test. A smart man will take the information I'm about to speak and either give it to his Lord or act on it on their own, without further action toward me. A greedy man will attempt to take my life even after being given that information – and all that they were given will be lost."

At that moment, she desperately wished for a glass of wine. Talking with assassins was never an easy thing. She didn't want to scare the gentleman – after all, startling assassins tended to result in a nasty case of death – so she was careful to use open, slow gestures.

"It is the name – the full, true name – of our clan. A name formed by an unlikely partnership. A name that is written on every member of my clan – written in the night of our hair, in the glow of our eyes. A name that screams why no living man or woman has ever claimed to have killed one of us, why every assassin and soldier who has sought our lives has been found dead – sometimes in success, sometimes in failure, but always in death. And if you have any sense at all, you will take this name to heart, and run so far away that you won't even think of crossing our path again."

She thrust her chest out in pride. "The full name of the clan is Seraphins de la Mort." Her green eyes danced in the gaslight. "The Angels of Death."

She adjusted her posture slightly. "So, Death Eater… if you truly wish to taste death, the buffet is prepared. Are you ready to dine?"

A few seconds later, a dull thump echoed from the closet. She let out a quiet breath. Death always knew when his children were killed through violence. Sometimes Death came before the act was done, sometimes after. But Death always knew. And, as strange as it would sound to any outsider, Death was a family man. He always took vengeance on his own. She was just glad he'd found her straits before she moved on to the next great adventure.

Sighing, she went to her luggage, and began to pack. The council was done; it was time to go home. Besides, she had a great-grandfather to thank.

* * *

Roland Mulciber, General and Commander of the British Evolved Expeditionary Force, was not happy.

So much of the Calais offensive had gone wrong. Every other offensive had involved weeks, even months of planning. One thing Ireland had taught them was that good intelligence kept good wizards alive. Death Eaters thrived on taking advantage of their opponents' weaknesses, finding a chink in the armor and exploiting it.

That hadn't happened here. Word was that the Dark Lord had lost the element of surprise, and chose to attack before France could fortify Calais further. The detailed scouting normally performed before each assault was incomplete for Calais; it was as though all of the information they'd had suddenly became obsolete.

If the French truly had gotten wind of their invasion, maybe it had.

The result of the invasion was expected, but not ideal. Calais fell; it couldn't withstand a sustained attack from the entire Expeditionary Force. However, too many good wizards and witches lost their lives in the fight. An assault that was supposed to be over in hours stalled into a ten-day siege. Casualty lists that were supposed to be in the dozens ran at least a hundred and fifty – nearly seven percent of the forces the Dark Lord had arranged for the invasion. Calais' magical districts had burned, the side effect of the intense fighting; instead of using the magical areas as quarters, they'd been forced to commandeer and transform some abandoned warehouses for their headquarters. Word was that they'd nearly had a break in the Statute of Secrecy over the invasion; the ICW itself had warned Voldemort that a further break may result in international action.

Still, they had their beachhead. Calais was secured. It was time to build from there.

He blew on his cup of tea to cool it off, and looked out at the seaside. Paris was not an option, yet. Any fool could see that after Calais and its aftermath. While Calais almost caused a break in the Statute of Secrecy, an assault on Paris WOULD cause a break; unless their spies could find a way to crack its defenses, Paris was out. However, there were a dozen targets of opportunity elsewhere in France. Paris would howl if its food sources – its wines, its cheeses, its breads – were taken from them.

Yes, that would be the right way. Bleed France's countryside dry. Let his wizards revel in its famed wines and cheeses. Isolate Paris, starve it into submission; make them break the Statute to feed its people. Force them into a battle, on grounds of his own decision and design. Only then, after any offensive power to magical France was broken, would they go for the capital. The losses to his own people would be minimized, while the pain to his enemy maximized. The Dark Lord wouldn't like it, as he wanted Paris conquered immediately, but it was the only way.

* * *

Gracia of the Clan Plumeria looked at the letter in her hands, and began to cry.

She hated everything. She hated this barbarian land, a plot of empty prairie deep in the United States. She hated the cold, a bitter chill that cut into everything. She hated being so far from everything she'd known, everything she'd grown up with. She hated the Death Eaters for forcing her clan into a dark agreement, then enacting a terrible punishment when her clan could not deliver.

But, more than anything else, she hated Clan Seraphin.

Clan Plumeria thought they were safe. When the Death Eater representative had approached them about an alliance, they'd jumped at the chance. Too many of the Clans had been destroyed or displaced by the monster Grindlewald; Clan Plumeria could not chance another Dark Lord's wrath. Any negotiated settlement that guaranteed the safety of Clan Plumeria needed to be taken advantage of. That it might mean the exposure or even the elimination of other clans did not concern Gracia or her mother; unlike some of the stronger clans such as Orchidee or Rosa, Clan Plumeria did not have much skill in the way of magic. Their only defense was a negotiated peace.

And, with a few pointed words, Clan Seraphin had sent it all crashing down. They'd exposed Clan Plumeria's duplicity to the Council. Suddenly doors that were open to the clan slammed shut. Clan Plumeria veela were barred from other enclaves, removed forcibly from the enclaves they'd already infiltrated, and had even been killed by other clans once word of the Council spread.

Mother had known what that meant. The currency with which they'd planned to buy the life of the clan had been cruelly stolen from them. Mother had sent her and a contingent of Clan Plumeria veela away to set up an emergency enclave; that had been a month ago. Mother was so paranoid of the possibility of infiltration that she'd ordered them not to give the location until Voldemort was gone. They'd purchased the land and set up the furniture; they hadn't had time to do anything more than that before the letter had come.

The letter, from one of a very few survivors, announcing that their emergency enclave was now the official Clan Plumeria enclave, and that she now led the clan.

Gracia hurt. She didn't know she could hurt so much. Her mother had done everything she could to save the clan, and it wasn't enough. All because some high-and-mighty magically-strong clan felt it was better to fight than to submit.

And Gracia, now head of the Clan Plumeria, vowed with every fiber on her being that Clan Seraphin would pay.

* * *

Olympe Maxime Hagrid looked at the letter in her hands, and began to cry.

The future of Beauxbatons was obvious, if anyone was willing to see. Beauxbatons was a palace, not a fortress; it was not designed for warfare. While its defenses were formidable, they paled next to the hard granite of Hogwarts or Durmstrang. Beauxbatons could only make the price of assault painful; it could not make its cost incalculable. It would fall to the British, without fail; the only question was who would die as a result.

She'd tried to warn her students. Every day she'd warn them that the British were coming, and may do harm to those that didn't fit their agenda. Every day some would listen, and some would not. She'd even given priceless gifts to those who left – rare, proscribed books, the true treasure of Beauxbatons, to keep them out of British hands. Part of her had dreamed that all would leave early, that she could follow her husband and daughter into hiding.

Unfortunately, some simply would not listen. They stayed, so she had to stay. Staying, though, was no longer an option; new tenants for the building were just outside. She wiped her eyes, picked up a length of rope, hefted her suitcase, and walked to the great hall.

She looked in the eyes of those who'd remained, those who waited for her response, and stopped. They had no clue. They literally had no plan for life in a world with madmen like Voldemort. They'd grown up in a sheltered existence, a deluded place where the government would protect them while they enjoyed their lives.

The government was stripped away. Paris was isolated. She was all that was left. To them, she was the government of France.

And it was time she let them know just what stood at their gates, and how many chances they had left. She stood in front of them, her suitcase in her hands, a rope twirled in her fingers, and she represented any authority left.

"I've been in negotiations with the army outside. After some discussion, it was agreed that Beauxbatons would be surrendered to the expeditionary forces without incident, provided that anyone who wishes to evacuate may do so within the next hour."

A nervous murmur rippled through the crowd. A few began to cry. To be honest, she wished to join them in crying.

She could not surrender to her tears, though – not yet. She held up a rope, and showed it to them.

"This is a portkey, set to deliver us to Turin once activated. I will activate this in 45 minutes. Anyone who wishes to leave the country with me may do so at that time." Her eyes narrowed. "I will be blunt. The people outside are not kind to those of so-called 'impure' blood – those witches and wizards who have non-wizards in their near ancestry. I can do what I can from Turin, if you come with me – but I can no longer help you if you stay here."

She gulped. "You have forty minutes to pack your things and report back here, if you wish to leave with me. I can't wait much longer than that. Pack light; I don't know how much traveling we're going to do." She took a deep breath, then whispered the final word. "Go."

The students stood there for a moment, wondering what had happened, then ran for their dorms. Olympe sighed. She would miss the place… but she missed her husband and daughter far more.

* * *

Gabrielle Delacour morosely gazed into the fire in front of her.

She'd known for a long time that this day was coming. She'd known when she'd said goodbye to her older sister and brother-in-law; they'd warned everyone before going into hiding of the storm brewing in Britain, but none in France would listen. She'd known from the moment troops had been sighted in Calais, as the words of atrocities filled the wizarding papers. She'd known as the Death Eaters took town after town, enclave after enclave; she'd known the moment she'd heard the Clan Orchidee enclave near Grenoble had fallen.

She'd known that she'd march into the Pyrenees, hoping that her blood would lead her to safety.

She'd gotten out just in time. According to the Wizarding Wireless, Beauxbatons had fallen under siege mere hours after she'd left; after it fell, all of the non-pure wizards and witches had been 'removed' from the campus. She carried few illusions as to what would have been her fate had she stayed. She also carried few illusions as to her fate if she didn't make it to safety, and quickly.

Every other-than-wizard population in the world had its enclaves, secret places protected by security and obscurity, places that called to those of the blood, and repelled those foreign to it. It was a necessity of wizardkind; occasionally some crusading wizard would seek the subjugation or elimination of "non-human" magical creatures, and those creatures would have to hide. Veela had set up dozens of such enclaves across Europe over the centuries, places to hide away from the latest pogrom. Grindlewald had purposely hunted and wiped out most of the enclaves; none could dare infringe on his vision of purity.

But a few had remained. And that, Gabrielle hoped, would be enough. Nana had told her to run for the Pyrenees, near Andorra, if Hell got as far as southern France. Neither she nor her sister questioned Nana's advice; Fleur and Bill had gone there years ago. It was now time for her to follow. She'd convinced a muggle to drive her from Nice to Prades, to search for the enclave she suspected. Five days of wandering in the wilderness had revealed little; occasionally she found human footprints, but nothing definite.

She was close. She could feel it, the calling of family, of those whom she shared bonds of blood with. She just wished it wasn't so cold.

"Good evening," a melodic voice called. "May I join you?"

Gabrielle startled, a wand in her hands in a heartbeat. "Come into the light – slowly." She'd seen too many horrors to ever trust any voice. "I apologize for caution, but these are dangerous times."

"Understandable – and very true," the voice replied, just before a figure stepped into the clearing. "I wonder if you realize just how dangerous they've become."

Gabrielle didn't relax, even after seeing the being that entered the clearing. The visitor was clearly of veela heritage, with the flawless beauty and allure common to veela women. Raven-black hair cut painfully short spoke of activity and perhaps rebellion; soft jade eyes calmly stared back at her. Elegant hands peeked out of her cloak, held up in peace, a walking stick gingerly held out. Something about her elfin features tickled at Gabrielle's memory; perhaps she was a relative of some veela she knew. Her outfit spoke of familiarity with the mountains: comfortable boots, leather breeches, a light-but-enchantable cloak, pouches for food and gear. She was also familiar with magic; Gabrielle could see a wand holster outlined on her forearm.

While Gabrielle took the veela's appearance as a good sign, she knew that betrayals often came from those least suspected. She kept her wand leveled at the visitor. "What's your name?"

The veela smiled. "I am Andromeda; I am a daughter of Clan Seraphin. May I ask yours?"

Gabrielle nodded slowly. Black hair, magical ability, secrecy – definitely Clan Seraphin. She straightened up, giving her name in veela fashion. "I am Gabrielle; I am a daughter of Clan Orchidee. I come to this area seeking Elysium."

Andromeda nodded slowly. "We know. You weren't the only one going this direction; we encountered one of Voldemort's Snatchers trailing you. He has since been confounded and diverted from this area." She set her walking staff next to a tree. "Before Elysium is granted, you must be checked first. We have to be sure you don't have any tracking charms, and that you haven't been compromised mentally." Her face fell. "We also have to be sure that you understand the responsibility of Elysium. You cannot betray the enclave's existence; if you desire to leave, its location must be removed from your mind. Do you accept these conditions?"

"I do," Gabrielle replied, lowering her wand, but leaving it at the ready.

Andromeda looked at Gabrielle's stance, and smiled. "Good tactics. The first thing I need to do is cast a spell for tracking charms." She cast a spell over Gabrielle's equipment; to Gabrielle's surprise, a glow came from inside of her backpack. "May I?"

Gabrielle nodded slowly. When Andromeda pulled the glowing object out, Gabrielle's eyes widened.

"Voldemort had his sympathizers in France long before invading. No doubt one of your classmates knew you would take this diary with you. Please wait just a moment." With a flick of Andromeda's wand, a deer appeared in the clearing; a second flick transferred the glow from the diary to the deer. With one last flick of the wand, the deer disappeared. "I moved the tracking charm to the deer, then sent him miles from here; the diary is safe, now." Andromeda looked sheepish for a moment. "The second spell I must cast is a legilimency spell; I need to be sure you are not under some compulsion."

Gabrielle shivered as she felt a soft touch against her mind. Memories tickled to the surface, quiet reminders of recent days. After a moment, Andromeda lowered her wand, and smiled.

"You're clear. Good. I really would have hated to explain to Fleur that you weren't allowed in."

Gabrielle's eyes lit up. "Fleur made it?"

"Indeed; she and her mate have been invaluable to the enclave." Andromeda smiled, and picked up her walking staff. "Gather your items, Gabrielle of the Clan Orchidee, and follow me. It's time for you to come home."

* * *

Theodore Nott, Knight of the Order of Walpurgis, Corps Commander in the British Evolved Expeditionary Force, was not happy.

They'd thought it would be so easy after they'd taken Britain. No light wizard on earth could match Albus Dumbledore, and he fell easily enough. After they took the Ministry, the opposition went underground, and were hunted like dogs. All of them fell – Weasley, Tonks, Longbottom, Bones… all of them fell to the Lord's hunters. The next great hope for the light, Harry Potter, disappeared in an explosion in London, preferring suicide over capture and subjugation.

Wise boy. Lord Voldemort's punishment for the boy who'd singlehandedly stopped his first rise would have been quite… creative. With no opposition in Britain or Ireland, the Dark Lord had turned his attention to the Continent.

France had caved, quite easily. Calais was a symphony of screams; he'd been rewarded with his current rank and command for his actions there. Bordeaux's wines had tasted sweet on his palate as his armies marched through the vineyards; vacation in Nice had been a well-deserved treat. France was almost under Voldemort's heel; with the exception of isolated Paris, all of France had fallen. All that was left was a few rumored enclaves in the Pyrenees, and the path into Spain would be clear. After a small respite to gather and recover his troops, he began to move into the mountains to either absorb or crush any opposition that remained.

When exploring unknown territory, the method was always the same. Send scouts and snatchers in to the territory. If nothing was found, secure the territory and continue in. If an enclave was found, offer them a chance to join. Many wizarding enclaves had joined Voldemort's banner after such offers; battles were won without a single spell cast.

If resistance was met, they were to demonstrate the superiority of Voldemort's philosophy with extreme prejudice.

Which is why Theodore was frowning as he looked on at the mountain in front of him. This was going to be bloody, he knew. The snatchers he'd sent to the area had reported nothing; however, Theodore was no fool, and had detected the use of mind magics on them. Whoever had used the spells was not an amateur, either; snatchers had defenses against such intrusions, but whoever had confounded them had brushed aside such defenses as though they were paper. That implied both power and subtlety – a dangerous combination. It also had implied mercy, which he hoped to use to his advantage.

His next move had been to send a squad of wizards up to the area. It was there that he found the people of the enclave were not as merciful as he'd hoped. When they hadn't come back, he very carefully sent a scout forward to report on what he saw.

The scout came back – with a charred skull in his hands. All of the wizards had been burned to a crisp, he'd said. The skulls had been placed on pikes, the bodies left for carrion.

Mercy for both sides was clearly no longer an option. Still, it was merely an enclave; what could an enclave do against a hundred trained and bloodied wizards and witches? The ten in the squad had merely been surprised, he decided; a full regiment of Voldemort's best could take down any enclave. If nothing else, they could rain fire on the village until nothing remained.

When that regiment – a full twenty percent of his fighting force – didn't return, he knew he was in trouble. He sent a slow owl back to the main force at Beauxbatons, detailing what he'd found and the probable location of the enclave, and moved his army in.

Four hundred wizards and witches. Some he'd known since before the war; others had joined up in Britain, or Ireland, or in France. All were loyal to Voldemort's cause, and ready to kill to bring this usurper to heel.

The first thing that greeted them was a ring of skulls around the mountain. These magic-users were clearly barbarians; they had taken the skulls of the regiment, posted them on pikes, and carved the word "Nex" into the forehead of each.

Nott twitched. The fate of his first regiment was broadcast for all to see. If he didn't stop this now, his army could break and run. "Get them down – now!" he ordered. He had to show his people who was really in control, who were the real conquerors. He looked at the headless bodies, food for carrion. "Carve some trenches; get these bodies buried. NOW!"

The soldiers were nothing if not efficient. Groups of wizards pulled up the stakes and tossed them into a pile. Others began to dig large holes, mass graves for their comrades. Theodore looked up at the top of that mountain, and frowned.

To hell with it, he decided. He was just going to burn the place to cinders. Let those bastards figure out how to handle Fiendfyre. He was not going to risk any more of his men chasing after ghosts.

"Sir…"

Nott turned. "What is it now?" His eyes widened when he saw what was happening.

He had been one of Nott's soldiers once; now, all that was left was a walking corpse. Dessicated, dried hands crackled with every movement; skin stretched tightly across a sunken face. All around him, dozens more fell as their bodies withered away, victims of an unknown spell.

Nex indeed, Nott thought. No more games, he thought; no more mercy. He was going to blast the mountain to nothing.

It was at that point that the fireballs began to rain down on his position. All around him, his army burned. The firepower was impossible; a thousand wizards on their best day couldn't generate such destruction! He looked around in the chaos, trying to find any hope for their position, finding his entire command burning around him.

An explosion from a combat rune array knocked him unconscious, ending his torment.

* * *

Roland Mulciber stared in apoplexia at the cart laid in front of him.

What stared back at him were the remains of an entire corps. Bleached skulls, charred wands, the occasional intact arm that still displayed the Dark Mark.

Nott's corps had reported for duty.

Oddly enough, the first sign of real trouble had come from the goblins. Heirs to several families within his army suddenly found themselves heads of families; heads of other families suddenly found inquiries asking who would take the place of a recently-deceased heir. Letters such as these were rare within the Expeditionary Force, but not unheard of. What was unheard of was to receive dozens of such letters simultaneously.

He'd first tried to owl Theodore, asking about his army's condition. When the owl stood there without moving, he attempted to owl O'Donnell, one of Nott's regimental commanders. He'd tried owling a half-dozen officers before he finally stopped and sat down, absorbing what had happened.

An entire corps had been massacred. Butchered, presumably to the last wizard. A quarter of his army gone, likely in the span of minutes. He'd sent snatcher teams to delicately scour the area; they hadn't found anything so far.

He wasn't expecting his foes to deliver the remains of his corps back to the middle of his camp, just outside of Beauxbatons. Unfortunately for him, everyone in the camp had caught sight of the carts full of remains before he could clamp a lid on the affair.

Which meant that he had to work to keep his army intact. He looked around at the army around him, the fearful eyes, the horrified gazes.

He needed to hold them together. He took a deep breath, and began prowling around the cart.

"No doubt you all have heard what happened to Nott's Corps. How they disappeared, were likely massacred. Well, now we know. Now we know what they've done, what's happened to them."

Mulciber licked his lips. "It's clear we've been too lenient on the holdouts. Our goal is one nation – one people – one land ruled by true wizardingkind!" He sighed. "We know, now. No doubt Theodore Nott made a mistake, and was lured by some enclave into a trap. He sent an owl with his position before his death; we have some idea of where these murderers are."

His dark eyes blazed into the crowd. "Do you want to avenge your family? Your friends?"

The cheer from the crowd sent a chill down his spine. They weren't afraid anymore. They were angry.

And angry soldiers were useful soldiers.

"Then let's go get them!" he cried. "Pack your things; we move out at dawn."

They cheered again, and Mulciber smiled. He'd quietly send a detail to bury Nott's men shortly. For now, he wanted their wands pointed in the right direction: straight down the enemy's throats.

* * *

Bellatrix Lestrange looked at her Lord and Master in amazement.

It was something she hadn't been able to define, but something had changed in him. From the moment decades ago when she'd first set eyes on him, he had always been in complete control of the situation. The man had simply tamed the magic around him; as the world burned around him, he always remained cool, always unflappable. It was what she loved most about him: no matter the chaos around them, he was the rock she could rely on. It let her play with magic unfettered, and was the home she could always go back to. Even after his return he'd been unflappable; nothing could truly faze him. He defined what mattered and what didn't, and it was amazing how little really did matter.

But something had changed. Since Nagini had died, she'd seen a side of him she'd never imagined. The Dark Lord himself was delving deeper and deeper into the frenzy of magic. He'd personally shredded a clan of veela, taking the lead as he flayed the skin from their bones, cackling in maniacal glee as he cursed their beauty away. He pressed his own Elite Guard hard on the offensive, seeming to want to waste the country by his will alone.

Granted, the methods were not different. But… for the first time… Voldemort was in a hurry. The man who seemed to be in control of time itself was acting like time was slipping from him.

The revelation caused him to blink. Was Voldemort's time on this earth limited? Had those fools Crouch and Pettigrew botched the resurrection ceremony? Did Potter's death somehow trigger something?

She licked her lips at the possibility. While she loved the stability her Lord and Master provided, the thought of him surrendering to the frenzy of battle… mmmm, it made her weak in the knees. Ooooh, she wanted to show him how to truly dance in the battle, to glory in the chaos!

She smiled. A werewolf enclave was on the list tomorrow. Werewolves were fun even outside of the full moon, instinctive and powerful, but foolish. Perhaps she should make some hints as they danced tomorrow?

Bella licked her lips. Yes, tomorrow's dance would be nice.

* * *

Nymphadora "Dora" Lupin stuck her thumb out, and walked south down the road.

The enclave had fallen. Voldemort had butchered anyone he could find. His method had been brutal, yet effective; a moonlight spell and silver armor, and the slaughter was on. The moment she'd seen Remus and the others start to change, she grabbed her child, ran for the house, and bolted the door.

She gulped in remembrance. Nothing was more terrifying than the sound of dozens of werewolves screaming. She hid with little Teddy underneath their mattress, her wand in her hands, certain she'd be fighting an impossible battle in moments.

Just as the screams died, the Death Eaters broke out Fiendfyre.

She survived because no Death Eater would consider the possibility of a non-werewolf in the enclave. Stone had been used for their home, as werewolves could shred wood; when the fire had come to wipe out any evidence, the house soon turned into a wood-burning oven. She picked up what she could and ran for the cool box, praying the cooling runes from the cool box and some bubble-head charms would keep her and her son alive. She'd waited the storm out, holding Teddy close to her, terrified at the knowledge that a cool box's magic was the only thing keeping the two of them alive.

Then, after the screams of werewolves and the crackle of the world burning around them, silence hung over the night. Still she waited in the cold box, waited until her son became uncomfortably cold, and then, finally, left the security of their cool box, and walked out into what had been her home.

Anything in the house had been roasted. The Fiendfyre hadn't touched them directly; they hadn't needed to, as temperatures had reached combustion levels without approaching the insides of their home. The outside of the house was even worse. The entire world was stark; grays and blacks covered the earth, while the sun shone above, the sky a sharp blue. Ash and werewolf bones coated the ground; stumps of exploded trees stood as mute tombstones to the slaughter.

At least she knew they weren't coming back. There was nothing to come back to. The first order of business was digging a grave for the victims. She'd ended up with two pits – one a mass grave for her neighbors, and one solitary pit for a werewolf skeleton with a very familiar ash-blasted ring found on his finger.

Wives are never supposed to dig their husband's graves, she mused.

Her goodbyes spoken, her tears shed, she salvaged what she could from the wreckage. There wasn't much; she'd grabbed her go-bag – a necessity for any werewolf's family - before darting into the cool box, but that was about it. She managed to grab a few pieces of food, found a piece of string to tie her husband's ring to her neck, and began to make her way back to civilization.

It was at moments like this that she was grateful to her father. Her father had taught her the basics of the muggle world, how to operate within it – including how to travel. Hitchhiking was a last resort, she knew, but it was the only way. She couldn't count on the Death Eaters not being able to detect apparation.

Besides, there was no place to apparate to. She decided to head south, either southeast to Italy or further southwest to Spain.

Still, it wasn't fun. Several cars had passed as she walked; none had stopped. She'd been walking along the road for most of the day, and no one had come to help, even with the child carried on her shoulders. Chatter with her son helped the time pass; as long as she was talking with him and answering his questions and singing and laughing, she wouldn't have to think about the husband she'd just buried, or the life she'd left behind.

Every mother needs a rest, though, and she needed to stop for a minute. She eased Teddy off of her shoulders and sat down for a moment, pondering her next move. She had maybe two hours of daylight left; she needed to set up camp by then. She had a wizarding tent in her go-bag; however, every tent needed a campsite, and she wasn't sure where any were around here.

Her ears perked up at the roar of an engine. Another car was approaching; desperately, she stuck her hand out, asking for a ride. She nearly started crying in relief when the car stopped, pulled to the side, and began to reverse.

Dora blinked. The car was a 1968 Rolls-Royce Silver Shadow, in forest green; whoever owned the car was likely both rich and eccentric. It was a beautiful car to be sure, but one she never thought she'd find out here. That said, it also assured her of one thing: Death Eaters don't drive.

The car stopped, the driver got out of the car – and stared at the pair for a moment. At least, Dora assumed she did; the sunglasses made reading her difficult. She was an older woman, about forty, with just enough wrinkles to look dignified without truly showing her age. Dignified also described her clothing; everything she wore screamed both money and taste. She wore a well-tailored black pant suit, with medium heels; a pearl necklace accented her outfit. Her wavy brown hair was held back by a black headband; sunglasses hid her eyes.

Dora sighed. She must look a sight, after all she'd been through. "Hello. I'm sorry to ask for a ride, but my son and I were hoping to get to a nearby campsite. We'd eventually like to head down to Spain, but –"

"You're alive."

The words slammed into her like a tidal wave. The first thought was threat; whoever this was knew she'd survived the destruction of the enclave. The second was more a mental incongruity, an impossibility.

She knew that voice.

The shock was enough for the woman to rush into her arms, hugging her for all she was worth. Dora could barely make out the words, but she could understand enough. Dora weakly returned the hug, not sure if she'd died or finally gone mad.

After a moment, the woman dislodged herself, smiled, and took off her sunglasses.

"We… when we heard about what the Death Eaters did to your enclave, we feared the worst. We knew there was one survivor; we tracked the footsteps down to the road. But to know both you and Teddy made it… Oh, thank Merlin you two are all right!"

Dora blinked at the woman in front of her, trying to make sense of what she was seeing – and failing miserably. She'd learned to recognize voices, so she wasn't fooled by what she was seeing, but the implications…!

"H… How are you…"

The woman smiled. "Tonks… er, what do I call you now?"

Despite the situation, Dora managed a brave smile. "Dora." She swallowed. "He called me Dora."

The woman nodded. "Okay." She gingerly wiped a tear away. "Dora." She gestured to the car, soft brown eyes welcoming them to safety. "Come on. I'll need to check the two of you for tracking charms – and do a bit of legilimency to make sure you two are for real – but we should have you home by nightfall."

The word stopped Dora short. "H… Home?" She started to shiver.

The woman grabbed her, and hugged her close. "It's okay, T-er, Dora… it's okay. I'll be there, my husband's there, Hagrid's there, Bill and Fleur are there… there'll be lots of friends for Teddy to play with… it'll be okay, Dora. It'll be okay."

Dora barely felt it as she was eased into the car; her driver transfigured a child seat for Teddy to use, and buckled Teddy in as though she had years of practice. Within moments, she was speeding across the French countryside, watching the miles go by.

* * *

Voldemort stared at the book in his hands. He'd been trying to read the same page for ten minutes, and couldn't get into it.

Yesterday had been glorious. Bellatrix's plan for the werewolf enclave had been both sound and elegant: don full-body silver armor, cast a moonlight charm on the camp, then slaughter the mindless beasts. She'd been right in a critical way: a witch or wizard – any witch or wizard – was more dangerous than the strongest werewolf.

It was safe – safer than any of the battles he'd been in of late. But the monsters had been so feral, so wild, that the fight had brought out the warrior in him. He had danced among the savages, slicing them down, glorying in their howls of pain. It had been exquisite – and he'd never cast a single cruciatus curse. They'd dueled with the beasts for a good half-hour, turning these fearsome beasts into mewling, whimpering kittens, then inflicted tortures on the survivors for a good half-hour more.

Their revels done, there was but one thing left to do. He adored Fiendfyre. Again, it was all a matter of control, just like with the werewolves, his magic keeping the beast at bay. He danced with the devil, guiding it to their shacks and abodes, cackling with glee as the forest burned around them, erasing the enclave from existence, burning all within to ash.

And it was beautiful.

It had been a very long time since he'd felt a rush such as that. Few could bring him to total bliss within battle; Dumbledore certainly had, Lily Potter on occasion, Sirius Black could… but all of them had finally succumbed to him. Tonight he felt what he'd felt against them. Seeing the werewolves all gather around himself and his inner circle, then going into the dance to cut them all down… ecstasy. Pure ecstasy.

He now understood what had been bothering him so much. Not only was he mortal… he was bored. No one was a challenge anymore. It used to be that he'd search out his enemy, they'd duel like proper wizards and witches, and he'd come out victorious. Now they skulked in shadows, ambushing his armies, and killing his pet snake. It had been so long since someone had fought him face-to-face that he'd forgotten what the heat of battle felt like.

He wanted to feel that again. He needed to feel that again. Life was not just to an existence. He needed to live; he needed to dance in the blood of his enemies.

Voldemort smiled quietly, and pondered. Yes… he would need to make some changes to his plans.

* * *

Gareth Miller was starting to regret his choice of profession.

It had seemed like the opportunity of a lifetime at first. As his family was a modest pureblood clan, his options had been depressingly limited. Even the mudbloods had the ability to go back into the society they came from; a pureblood had to muddle through magical Britain as best they could. And there was nothing quite like a war to advance a modest pureblood clan.

For awhile, anyway, it had worked. He'd accounted himself well in the Irish campaign, enough to be named a squad leader for the French invasion. Calais had been tougher, but France had eventually settled into the sort of fight he liked: one-sided domination, with any opposition quickly brought to heel. He'd started to dream of being an accepted, respected pureblood back in Britain.

And then there was this little enclave on the border with Spain that had caused trouble. Rumors had spread like wildfire, how they'd wiped out all of Nott's corps to a man. The confirmation of that result had shocked the expeditionary force, but his men were made of sterner stuff.

Still, they'd been careful as they set up camp, roughly ten miles east of Nott's last known position. Every precaution had been taken: aerial scouts patrolled the skies, watching for any incursion; warning runestones had been placed at the edges of the camps, to alert and protect the camp in case of a sneak attack.

At least, he assumed the aerial scouts were up there. They had to be disillusioned, to keep any prying eyes from seeing, but they normally reported every so often, if for no other reason than to take breaks. It had been awhile since the last one had reported, which worried him.

A lot of things worried him, anymore. He looked down at the stone of the ground, trying to make sense of it all.

The French were beyond his understanding. Calais was supposed to be easy; it wasn't. The enclaves were supposed to be easy to find; they weren't. Instead of a smooth ride through Europe, it felt as though they were having to dodge disaster.

He blinked. There had been a building here, once upon a time; he could see the outline of the stone foundation, one of several in the clearing. The muggles had built a settlement here of some kind decades ago, during one of their wars. The foundations were all that remained of the place; the platforms were perfect for setting up tents. He scuffed the ground, wondering at the people who once lived there.

He frowned. Lines were obscured by the dust. He quickly bent down, instantly curious, and traced out the lines in the rock.

Runes.

His eyes widened. He didn't dare use magic directly on the rock, for fear of powering the runes. He transfigured a branch into a broom, and began to sweep away the dirt from the stone.

What he saw scared him. In its own way, it reminded him of protective wards around ancient wizarding castles. At the same time, it looked nothing like those wards.

This should not be. Command had called this a muggle settlement. Rune etchings in stone should not be here. And yet, they were.

There was only one thing to do. Still clutching his impromptu broom, he went to notify Higgs, his superior officer, of what he found.

Higgs, unfortunately, was getting inebriated with his old school chums over firewhiskey. He schooled his features, then stood before his superior officer.

"Sir! I believe that we have detected a problem with our camp."

Higgs blearily frowned. "The camp is fine, Miller. You know how hard it was to find a clearing we could fit everybody in? Now get your team fed, read, and in bed. You've got recon duty in the morning."

Miller took a deep breath, and frowned. There was one way, perhaps, that he could convince Higgs. He started to brush off the stone near Higgs' tent, hoping - or perhaps dreading - he'd find more.

He wasn't wrong. The rune etchings were on Higgs' foundation block as well.

"Sir? I will do as you ask, but please look at the etchings at your feet, and ask yourself if muggles could have created them." He released the transfiguration on the broom, and made his way back to the tent.

About halfway through, the ground around all of them began to glow. Miller gasped; a magic drain! The entire clearing was designed to drain the magic out of anyone who dared activate the runes. Tents spewed their contents into the nearby area as their expansion charms failed; he had to dodge a flying couch even as he fought to remain conscious. He could see the edge of the circle; presumably, if he could make it through, he'd be relatively safe.

He finally fell, ten feet from the circle's edge.

* * *

Cassiopeia "Cassie" Jamieson, MP, sat in the office of the Prime Minister, patiently waiting for the meeting to end. She took a deep breath, desperate to keep herself calm; then again, like most of her family, she'd always been a mass of nervous energy.

The PM was going on about the "terrorist threat" as usual, as he was programmed to do. Death Eaters, like their more benign predecessors, had to come up with ways to cover up their crimes, lest a repeat of the witch trials play itself out. As it happened, there was always an enemy to place blame on: rogue elements of the IRA at first, then Islamic terrorists later. Radical Islamism was a threat, as was the IRA thirty years ago; however, it was nowhere near the threat that the PM had made it out to be.

She sighed. So much effort wasted, so many people killed, all because of a few blood purists.

Magic was an odd thing to her. She was born on a British naval base overseas; her father, technically a muggle, had alternated between overseas assignments. This was done for a very important reason: if she or her brother or sister ever set foot in Britain before their magical education began, the Death Eaters would know.

So she learned, if in a haphazard manner. She ended up going to three different magical schools throughout her education, and had earned a muggle education besides. Her father distinguished himself in the Falklands campaign; he'd chosen an assignment there because the Southern Cross School of Magic lay on the eastern island, a perfect place for her to learn magic. Eventually, after he'd reached his retirement from the Navy, he came home and ran for public office; when he finally retired from that, she followed in his footsteps. She could never publicize her magic, and rarely even used her own, but she had a role to play.

She knew dark wizards. The defense of the Southern Cross had involved students as well as teachers; the conflict had shown her why such monsters needed to be fought. Her great-great-grandfather's stories reinforced the lessons: evil thrives while good men and women do nothing.

And now, in the office of the Prime Minister, she was about to take the greatest gamble of her life, against the most dangerous set of dark wizards Britain had ever seen. She knew who the security guard on the left really was - a Death Eater stooge. Anything that obviously had an effect on the Prime Minister would immediately cast suspicion on them both.

The PM dismissed the meeting; the others shuffled toward the exit. It was time.

"Prime Minister?"

The PM looked at her with steel-gray eyes. "Yes, Mrs. Jamieson?"

"When last we spoke, we talked about literature, and your thoughts with regard to more speculative forms." She reached into her briefcase and pulled out a book - an early printing of Frank Herbert's Dune. "While none of us have much in the way of spare time, I thought you would appreciate this. I've always found its insight into how politics and belief intertwine to be… illuminating."

The PM blinked for a moment, took the book, then nodded. "I… I see. Thank you, Mrs. Jamieson." He set the book to one side; Cassie made her goodbyes, then left the office.

It wasn't until she reached her own office that she let out a sigh of relief. The book had two spells attached to it. The first was a mild compulsion, to read at least a few scenes of the book before sleeping that night.

The second was a quiet spell intended to work during his sleep. Anyone within a few feet of the book as they slept would find mental spells against them - imperius spells, obliviates - degraded over time.

When the PM awoke the next morning, he would no doubt pick up the book he'd just read, as well as a message written on page 13, the end of the first scene. Seven words seemingly scribbled randomly on the page, but would take shape once the book had run its course.

 _Ws compromised Office and Security. Notify Q._

It was the perfect time. The Death Eaters were, for the most part, tied down in France, distracted by the little war they'd started. She was the start of the flanking maneuver, to cut them off in Britain.

She knew the risks. Her great-great-grandfather had told her what was to come, how Britain would be turned to darkness, and how they would have to turn it back to the light. The move she had made, in one form or another, had been planned for centuries.

The Death Eaters had reached high tide. It was time to start pushing back.

* * *

John Dawlish stared at the two people in front of him, wondering if he should end it all.

His evening had started pleasantly enough. After the usual grind as head of the DMLE, he'd gone down to the Three Broomsticks to enjoy a butterbeer and relax. The evening had been like a hundred others spent at the place.

Then, as though in an instant, he found himself in another room. This one didn't have the soft woods and warm glow of a wizarding tavern; this was cold, metallic, sterile… muggle. He found all of his possessions gone; they'd even taken his clothes, replacing them with a bright orange jumpsuit. He was chained to a chair; the cuffs looked flimsy compared to the ones he was accustomed to, but they were more than adequate for holding him there. A metal table lay in front of him, with a couple of chairs on the other side.

Matters became worse as he tasted a familiar, acrid liquid residue on his tongue - veritaserum. He could sense the effects, the cloudlike sensations in his head; he was definitely under.

Which left him in a bad situation. He was the head of the DMLE. Whoever captured him was not benign. A few wrong questions, and every secret of the Ministry of Magic would be exposed.

Which left one last question: to apparate, or not to apparate? Apparating in an unfamiliar place was dodgy at the best of times; he could focus on a familiar spot and accomplish it, assuming that he had all of his faculties. Unfortunately, veritaserum compromised those faculties. Apparating meant almost certain splinching.

Which, if worse came to absolute worst, might be a way out: suicide by splinch.

Two people walked into the room: an older gentleman with black hair graying around the temples, and a young, attractive raven-haired beauty; both wore sunglasses, making legilimency impossible. Both also wore generic muggle suits, indicating their position in life. Instinctively, his mental shields slammed up; he recognized the first signs of a veela allure, even a passive one. The pair walked toward the chairs, and sat down.

The older gentleman opened the conversation. "Hello. My name is Ian Andrews, and this is my colleague, Natalie Harkness. Both of us are with Her Majesty's Secret Service; we are currently investigating a possible case of high treason against the crown." He chuckled softly. "By the way, I wouldn't think about apparation if I were you. Some of your kind helped us design this place. I believe the term they used was 'splinching'? Needless to say, you will exit this facility only when we allow you to." The lenses of his glasses swiveled toward Dawlish. "Name?"

"John Michael Dawlish," he answered automatically, cursing the veritaserum even as it made such a slip acceptable.

The older gentleman nodded. "Who do you work for and what is your position, Mister Dawlish?"

The words came out before he could stop himself. "I am the head of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement for the British Ministry of Magic," he replied.

The two looked at each other, a silent conversation between them. "Who do you recognize as your ultimate authority on Earth?"

Dawlish blinked. "Lord Voldemort," he answered.

The second one raised an eyebrow. "Not Queen Elizabeth the Second? Not the Prime Minister?"

"No," he responded.

"Why not?"

"They are muggles," the words came out with surprising confidence. He knew that, no matter what happened, Voldemort would discover what had happened, and take these two to task. "They are beneath us."

Dawlish knew the next look they gave him. He'd given it often enough in his work: faux shock at an answer. "Do you know about the Cardiff Concordance of 1663?" the woman asked.

Dawlish nodded. "Yes," he replied.

"What does the Concordance say?" she continued.

"That British wizarding society would be given limited independent rule, provided that they recognized the authority of Parliament and the reigning monarch and did not commit acts of rebellion against that authority." Dawlish had to learn it; it was a part of law enforcement training.

"And, yet, you fail to recognize the authority of the Queen or the Prime Minister?" the first asked.

"Yes," he replied.

He continued his questioning. "You do realize that to subvert the Prime Minister or the Queen is active treason against the Crown, yes?"

Dawlish smiled. "Only if tried in a muggle court," he replied.

The two nodded to each other. "Who cast the Imperius on the current Prime Minister?" the first asked, his voice a rapid shot of syllables.

Dawlish blinked. That they knew about that spelled bad things for his life. "It was cast by Lord Voldemort himself."

"How did you know about this?" he asked.

"I was there," he replied.

"Why were you there?"

"It was my job to place Agent Rosier with the Prime Minister's bodyguards. To do so, we needed to compromise several people within the Prime Minister's office, including his personal secretary and chief of staff. I cast the Imperius on his personal secretary and chief of staff, so that they would alert us to any attempt to break our control over the Prime Minister." He gulped. If these were muggles, he doubted he would leave the room alive.

"Who else was there, besides yourself and Agent Rosier?" the man asked.

"Lord Voldemort, Lucius Malfoy, Bartholemew Crabbe, Victor Avery, and Alecto Carrow."

"Were all of the people you just mentioned willing participants in the events?" the man finally asked.

"Yes," Dawlish replied.

"Why was Voldemort there? Another person could have cast the Imperius," the woman asked.

"Voldemort wished to gloat," Dawlish finally replied.

The older gentleman took a deep breath. "I think at this point we can formally charge you, as well as your colleagues, with treason against the Crown. This means two things." He tilted his head to one side. "First, if you are found guilty - and it is likely you will be - the rest of your life will be spent in captivity. Second… there is the question of whether or not you will be executed for your crimes. Whether or not you cooperate with this investigation from here on in will decide that." He smiled; Dawlish thought it was like a shark's grin. "So. Will you cooperate?"

Dawlish sneered. "I am loyal to my Lord."

"Good to know," the man replied. "Fortunately, you're still under veritaserum, and we have a great many other things we wish to ask about." He pulled out a large folder from his briefcase. "We're going to be here awhile."

Dawlish gulped. He was in an impossible situation. Keep talking, and his Lord would have his head. Splinch, and his head would likely be used as a quaffle by some sheep in the Hebrides while his body was scattered around the British Isles.

Which left one final question for himself, as he lost control of his lips and continued to answer their questions about acts of his department, and of his ministry.

To splinch, or not to splinch?

* * *

Roland Mulciber looked at the person across from him, his mind racing. It had been three days since his capture - three days without any human contact, three days with only the incessant pain of his arm from the Dark Mark, his master's call, to keep him company.

He had no illusions as to why. No doubt his army had fallen along with him.

This evening - at least, he assumed it was evening - would be different. It was time for him to meet his adversary. He'd been dragged from his room, chained to this chair, trussed up for some discussion - no doubt with the person in front of him - and his arm exposed with the Dark Mark facing upwards. So far, the man was adopting the Death Eater special, using a hooded robe to cover his face.

He gathered his wits to him. He needed something - anything - that he could use to work his way out of this place.

"You seem to have me at a disadvantage," he finally replied. Politeness, his mother said, would get him everywhere. "May I ask who I am addressing?"

The man paused for a moment. "Mister Mulciber -"

"General Mulciber," Roland corrected gently. He would not give up his commission - not to this person - and he'd be damned if this person didn't recognize his rank.

The man paused at the correction, then sighed. "You might not want that title in a few minutes," the man said. "I am a fair man, General Mulciber, far more fair than your so-called 'Lord Voldemort'. I have given each survivor of your army a choice. If you swear on your magic to never again serve Lord Voldemort, any organization that swore allegiance to him, or any organized group that advocates magical blood purity by the use of force, I will remove the Dark Mark on your arm, and you will be released tomorrow. If you do not, you will be dead by dawn."

Mulciber sneered at the hooded man. "You're dealing with impossibilities. No one can remove the Dark Mark - no one. Even if you could, the Dark Lord would hunt me down for my treason, and rip my family apart as well." He tried to shrug in his chains. "You might as well kill me, because I must reject your offer."

The hooded man's voice purred with curiosity. "As you wish. Just know that everyone who wears that mark will be dead soon."

"Dead? Really?" Mulciber snorted in disbelief, and looked down at his throbbing arm. "Others have said that before. Do you see any of them still around?"

The hooded man didn't answer. Rather, he strode over to Mulciber, and pulled out his wand. Mulciber's eyes widened. He recognized the wand. Decades ago, every inner-circle Death Eater had been told to watch for it, to acquire it and present it to their Lord by any means necessary.

Somehow, this hooded man had acquired Albus Dumbledore's wand.

That surprise was nothing compared to the next words that came from the man's lips - though words weren't quite the right description. Rather, a mess of sibilant hisses escaped from the man's hood; Mulciber's Dark Mark squirmed in response.

"P… Parseltongue?" he asked, surprised.

He heard rather than saw a smile appear on the hooded man's face. After a minute of parselspeech, the man took a step back, triumph in his voice.

"As I thought." He took a few steps back, then stared at Mulciber. "This is where we must part ways, General Mulciber. You may be a general without an army, but you have not abandoned your commission. You will die when your Lord dies." His head bowed, as though gathering his thoughts.

"One last thing. Plenty of wizards and witches have defied him, even beaten him on occasion. Wizards and witches with names like Dumbledore, like Longbottom, like Weasley, like Murphy, like Delacour." He paused for a moment. "Like Potter. In fact, some even succeeded against him. Many died, true, but they also bought life with their actions. As for why I know this, well… little Flight-From-Death has angered a lot of people - including me. No one defies me, Roland Mulciber. No one escapes me. No one flees from me."

The cloak fell to the earth, revealing… nothing. Literally, nothing. For all intents and purposes, the cloak appeared to have been empty.

The voice, however, remained. "Only those with the courage to face Death ever see Death coming."

And, in that moment, Mulciber's arm exploded in agony.

* * *

The old stone church had been around for centuries. Built long before mortar had come into use, the place was designed to accommodate a small, intimate crowd on Sundays. While it had fallen into disuse as an active parish centuries before, it still formed the center of the community. The church still stood, and like any sanctuary, people still came on occasion to pray. Moreover, it became a meeting place for the clan; whenever a meeting of the clan elders occurred, it was in the church.

And when the Clan Seraphin as a whole came together, it was to this central location that they gathered. That there wasn't enough room for everyone was immaterial; this was the center of the community, and the night sky was a peaceful one anyway.

The clan enclave had grown significantly over the past year. Its Matriarch and Patriarch had brought those diverse forces allied with the Angels of Death together in one place, as Flight-From-Death cut a swath across France's landscape. They'd given a home to those who had no other place, a home to come back to, a home to feel safe.

And, tonight, as the enclave stood vigil and stared into the night sky, that Patriarch had one last job to complete. And, well, its Matriarch had so much to say.

Hermione Potter rose on to a barrel to address the crowd, and stared out at everyone there. So much of their lives was arrayed in front of her. Friends they'd known from their first life, people who they'd fought alongside… well, long ago, for them. Grandchildren - for multiple definitions and severities of 'grand' - arrayed before them, their progeny, all with that shadowy black hair and sparkling magic-tinged eyes. Various refugees, veela from other clans who had taken refuge in the last safe place on earth. So many faces, so much love shrouded in candlelight.

And, tonight, they waited for the man they all loved - the man she loved - to come home. She licked her lips, trying to find the words.

"There is so much I want to say. So much that needs to be said. But, I think, it is important to start this story at the beginning. Or, maybe, in the middle. It all depends." She smiled. "That is the way of things with us. Sometimes we are given a purpose; sometimes we know the direction our lives must take. Sometimes fate tells us which direction to go. For my husband, it was definitely the latter." A few knowing chuckles radiated out from the audience.

She gestured out to a point beyond the crowd. "If you look just outside of town, you'll see a crater. That crater was formed two hundred and eighty-two years ago, when two people, on the run from what was certainly a death sentence, found a way to live. We traveled through time and space, looking for a place that would help us to finally live in peace – but we were not given that. To quote Mick Jagger, 'You can't always get what you want, but if you try sometimes, you just might find… you get what you need.' And, though we didn't realize it at the time, this enclave, the home of a small veela clan, was just what we needed. We were brought in, magically exhausted by our journey, and brought before Marie, the head of what was then Clan Calla."

She smiled wistfully. She missed Marie – a mother figure for her just as she was discovering what being a woman really meant. "Marie… had an opportunity and a dilemma. Harry and I were both powerful in magic, power that sang to her – power that would make the clan's children a force to be reckoned with. We were both clearly in love with each other, which would make such entanglements difficult." She bit her lip. "Harry and I… to describe where we were in our relationship… we were still young." A light tittering rippled through the crowd; Hermione grinned. "Now, now… I realize I'm the oldest person in this crowd by at least a century, but back then, well… we were young. So young. Moreover, we were hurting. We didn't know what we felt. So… an agreement was made."

She took a deep breath. "It was in that agreement that Clan Seraphin was born. My future husband was put out to stud; in the first three years alone, he became father to ten of the clan's children." A blush formed on her features. "And, yet… after each of these moments, he came back to me. I remember being so insecure in those early days… until Marie pointed that out to me. The Allure had no effect on him, because he wanted me." She grinned like a teenager. "He wanted me."

She forced herself back to the present. "The other thing we wanted… we knew Voldemort would come back. Harry and I didn't really understand what we had become, what the Hallows had done to us – but we knew, regardless, that we had time to prepare for the future. We thought… well, to be honest, we thought that we would be dead by now. So our initial plans were to give the world enough gifts – gifts of our progeny, gifts of magical study and research, gifts of crafts and weapons – to fight against him, to ultimately bring him down." She smiled. "As it happened, well… we lived long enough to see this – and to finish as adults what we could not as children."

She looked out into the darkness that lay beyond the crowd. "My husband's out there, facing him now. We've had time to prepare. We've had centuries to think about how to face that monster." She took a deep breath. "So… we wait. We hope… we pray. Tonight is either the first night of the rest of our lives… or the last."

* * *

Voldemort trudged into his bed, flopped down onto the mattress, and curled up in the sheets.

Anger had fueled him for much of the past couple of days. Curiously, the first sign of trouble had come from the garrisons; the French had heard of the capture of the expeditionary force, and taken advantage. Those garrison soldiers that could make it out quickly enough brought word of the defeat to Britain. Those that had not did not survive; the wizards and witches of France had quickly overrun the garrisons, and had shown as much mercy as the expeditionary force had shown them - in other words, very little.

The only good sign he'd had of the entire affair had been the lack of letters. The expeditionary force had largely been captured rather than exterminated; the number of letters sent to heads and heirs of families had been remarkably small. No doubt that fool Mulciber had been goaded into a trap with the massacre of Nott's men, and easily captured. He fully expected some terms of exchange to be made within a few days, some way to force him to stop the war.

Voldemort sneered. Let them rot in whatever oubliette they found themselves in. They'd failed; they should pay the price. He could always find new soldiers to replace the old. Even if wizards and witches were in short supply, there were always other beings that could be pressed into service.

Still, this had been a humiliating loss. A week ago, his crusade had seemed unstoppable; now, he seemed vulnerable, mortal. Even worse, he was mortal, now; every horcrux was gone, and there was no chance of making another.

He was tired. He'd never let his followers know, but he was. For once, he was on the receiving end of a guerrilla war, and he didn't know how to respond.

And this had been a guerrilla war, no doubt about it. The influence of magical France had been confined to Paris; it was all they had left. Beauxbatons, its great palace of learning in the south of France, had fallen peacefully. Enclave after enclave, magical community after magical community, had been crushed under his heel.

But one group would not be crushed. Some group of wizards had butchered Nott's men, and captured the rest of the expeditionary force. There had been no declaration of war, so it wasn't the Spanish; could it have been some mercenary unit?

He sighed. He would know soon enough, he thought. He would use the troops from Ireland and from the garrisons to shore up his defenses in Britain; no doubt other countries would -

He froze - literally. Before he could react, a full body-bind was silently cast on him; a moment later, his wand flew from his holster. Assassins! He mentally winced; he couldn't even trigger the call for help that would bring his followers to his side. He felt warm hands pull his arms behind his back, and magic-resistant cold iron clasp around his wrists; similar clasps were placed around his feet.

For a moment, he allowed himself to relax. Someone who would chain him wanted him alive. He would make his escape at some point - then have his revenge.

The next action, however, proved him wrong. It was a rotting spell, a Black family spell designed to literally rot a person's organs from the inside out. That he was betrayed by a member of the Black clan came as a shock, but he wasn't going down so easily. He began pouring his magic into healing the damage, fighting the rotting curse as much as he could.

His opponent only increased the damage, casting the spell repeatedly. Voldemort snarled; he would not die like this, chained like some dog! He began to pull magic from his followers; what one wizard's magic could not overcome, hundreds might. He grinned triumphantly to himself as he began to force the curse back.

He grinned triumphantly on realizing he'd not only beaten the curse, he'd managed to beat his body bind! He looked around, searching for his attacker. "You think you can just waltz in and kill me, assassin? GUARDS! GUARDS!"

No guards came. What did come, unfortunately, was another rotting spell; Voldemort sneered, and pulled more magic from his followers. "You don't have enough magic to beat me!"

He felt something drip into the rotting wound, and he grimaced from the pain. Whatever it was, it was a potent poison, one that made the rotting curse pale by comparison. Well, if this assassin wanted to cheat, fine! He pulled as much magic as he could from his followers, beating back whatever poison the assassin had used.

The rotting curse, he could feel, was done. But that poison, whatever it was, still burned through his veins, burned through his magic. Voldemort snarled. He. Would. NOT. Be. Beaten! He called on every ounce of magic he could, all of the magic his followers could spare, to fight this! He pulled every bit he could, even the very life-force of his followers, to counter this poison! He could feel his followers fade one by one as the sparks of their magic petered out, completely drained of all life. A dim part of him realized he'd just killed all of his followers, but he was Voldemort! He MUST survive! They lived and died to serve him!

And, yet, the poison kept coming, burning his veins, burning his skin, burning his insides, burning what little magic remained. Even his breath felt like it was on fire!

It was then that a quiet voice purred in his ear – and Voldemort realized his mistake.

"I was twelve years old when I first felt the burning of Basilisk venom in my veins. I sacrificed myself to save my best friend's sister from possession by one of your Horcruxes. Only reason I survived was because Fawkes was kind enough to cry in my wounds." The voice smiled. "Something tells me you haven't been on good terms with phoenixes of late. Shame, that."

The voice purred one more time. "You've run from me long enough, Tom. Your followers have run from me long enough. It ends tonight." The voice called for one more spell. "Fiendfyre."

The inferno loomed large in Voldemort's eyes as it approached…

* * *

Some places are never quiet, and never supposed to be, Maj. Deborah Avery thought as her team cautiously appeared in the Ministry of Magic entrance. They are just too busy, even at the darkest hours of the night. The aurors would always need to be on call; the receptionist would be there, ready to accept people at all hours. Maj. Avery had visited the Ministry several times in her childhood; to see it completely quiet and deserted left her concerned.

At the very least, the appearance of dozens of Her Majesty's Finest should have gotten the Ministry's attention.

The Home Office hadn't been sure what to make of the intel they'd received. The PM had been on a war footing for the past few days, preparing for every possible contingency. The PM was hopping mad; he was fully ready and prepared to go to war with Magical Britain, consequences be damned. Every magical and magic-born within the Army had been temporarily transferred to Merlin Company, prepared to do battle with the family and society that had spurned them. As she was a magic-born with the right rank, she was asked to lead the company.

She hadn't expected Magical Britain to keel over and die first.

She absently rubbed her shoulder as her company prowled toward the atrium, eyes open for any threat. She could respect the PM's position; the twinge in her shoulder whenever it rained – a gift from her oh-so-loving mother – would testify to that. Considering her mother had been aiming for her head, her respect for the PM had grown by leaps and bounds when the orders had come through.

Lt. Michaels, one of her platoon commanders, pointed to the statue in the atrium – of wizards on a pedestal, crushing all those underneath. "Merlin, Deb, will you look at that." He sighed. "If ever there was an apt description of the magical world's attitude toward anyone else, there it is."

"More truthful, at any rate, Ian," Avery agreed. "The statue that was here when I was a little girl had a witch, a wizard, a goblin, a centaur, and a house-elf; it was supposed to represent the magical comm-"

"Ma'am! We've got a body!" a corporal called out to her from the reception desk. "Oh, Merlin…" the voice trailed off.

Avery walked over to the reception desk, and looked to the corporal in question. "What is it, Thomas?"

The corporal pointed down to the arm. "Just… look at her arm, ma'am."

Avery's eyes widened as she looked at the receptionist. The receptionist couldn't have been older than twenty; no doubt she was given the night shift because of her lack of seniority. Voldemort, however, had demanded loyalty from all within the Ministry – and this child had been one to pay the price.

The receptionist had not died easily; it had been painful and drawn out over the course of several minutes, if the bloody claw marks on the floor were any indication. Besides that, the left side of her body looked… deflated seemed the closest description, like someone had taken a straw and tried to suck her organs and tissues out through her arm. The scorches around the Dark Mark suggested the arm had burned; whether those burns were pre- or post-mortem would be the purview of the coroners.

Whatever it was – whoever she was – it had not been a pleasant death.

Avery looked over to a private that had been trailing her, her face as hard as stone. "You have the camera?"

The private nodded. "Yes, ma'am."

Avery gestured to the body. "Take as many photos as you can." She snarled. "Document this… abomination." She walked away from the crowd, turning her face to the wall to compose herself.

A moment later, Lt. Michaels stood next to her. "You okay, Deb?"

Avery nodded slowly. "Yeah, Ian. Thanks." She looked back at the private, dutifully snapping photos. "Just a realization."

The lieutenant raised an eyebrow. "What's that?"

She smiled wanly. "You remember the day you got your Hogwarts letter?"

Lt. Michaels nodded. "Yeah… thought it was a joke at first. Had to have McGonagall explain what magic was before my parents would let me go." He looked at her carefully. "Why?"

She took a deep breath. "My letter never came; I didn't have enough magic. When my family realized I was a squib, well… I was lucky to get out alive. Thing is… if I had gotten my letter?" She looked over at the reception desk. "If I had, chances are some random grunt would be snapping photos of my corpse right now." A moment later, she put on her 'command face'; she glared back at her lieutenant, her dark eyes sparkling with unshed tears. "Come on. Let's finish this."

* * *

"It's over, Gracia! We can go home!"

Anna of the Clan Plumeria, the second-in-command of the Clan, breathlessly ran into her superior's office. Gracia slumped over a set of parchments, her entire concentration on an ancient tome as she wrote down her notes and translations. After a long second, Gracia looked up from the parchments, and fixed a bleary eye at her.

"What do you mean, 'it's over'?"

It physically hurt Anna to see Gracia. Only a couple of months previous, Gracia had been a vibrant, beautiful veela who'd reveled in her abilities and in her identity as a veela. There was little doubt that Gracia would inherit Helen's place in leading the clan into the future. No one had ever thought that inheritance would come so soon.

The loss of her mother, along with most of the senior veela of the clan, had scarred all of them, but it had hit Gracia especially hard. Gracia obsessed about those that had sold her clan to the butcher, those wizards and witches and magically-gifted veela that had caused the destruction of their enclave. Every speech she gave railed against magic, against those corrupted by its influence, about those who would use it to terrorize those without, such as their own clan.

This obsession had left its mark on Gracia's appearance. Most veela prided themselves on their humanity; to take on the birdlike appearance of their species was considered both the height of rudeness and an animalistic lack of control. Gracia had, put simply, become feral; plumage constantly sprouted on her arms and neck, her hands had been carved into sharp claws, and the pupils of her eyes had darkened to black.

Anna took a moment to compose herself. "The news is all over the Wizarding Wireless. The Death Eaters have fallen. Voldemort is dead. The threat is passed. We can go home, Gracia!" She clasped her hands in joy. "We can rebuild the clan as it should be."

"Home," Gracia said, her voice empty. She pushed back from her desk, and closed her eyes, clearly in thought. After a minute, she stared back at Anna, her eyes dead. "I cannot go home, Anna. My home was destroyed."

"So we can build a new one!" Anna pleaded. "Come on, Gracia. We can rebuild. That's what the clan has always done." She took one of Gracia's claws into her own. "Please, Gracia. Let's go back home, and rebuild."

Gracia shook her head sadly. "No, Anna." For a moment, Anna could see the Gracia she knew, the Gracia she'd grown up with; her eyes turned back to a shimmering blue. "Anna… I hereby name you as my heir. As my heir, I give you one order, only one: Take the remaining members of our clan back to our enclave. Rebuild. Make it a sight to behold. And then…" Gracia closed her eyes. "And then… take over as head of the clan."

Anna's jaw dropped. "Gracia…"

"I can't follow you back, Anna," Gracia replied, "because my calling, my place in the world, is here. I know what I must do. And it cannot be done as the head of our clan. I must stay here, learn the old ways of the locals… and use them to bring balance back to the world."

Anna's eyes widened. "Balance?"

Gracia grinned. "There is a legend in these lands. That a great bird – a Thunderbird – will lead the people in the Great Ghost Dance. At that moment, all veils will be pushed aside, all secrets revealed, all magic laid bare for the world to see, and the world will bow before the might of the land." Gracia allowed herself to become feral once more; her black eyes shimmered with mirth. "I will become that Thunderbird. I will lay the sins of the wizards before the world. I will bring the gift of magic to all. And when it is over, no one will suffer from the tyranny of wizards – for they shall stand against them as equals."

* * *

Dru took the pipette filled with hellebore syrup, her sapphire eyes completely focused on the milky-white potion in front of her. The potion had calmed to a low simmer; it was time to finish it. Seven drops of the violet syrup went into the cauldron, changing the potion from a milky-white to a soft turquoise blue.

She smiled, and started the clock. Seven minutes before the Draught of Peace would be finished. She nodded, then turned to her preparation station. She had just enough time to toast her Dragonfly Thoraxes for a future Girding Potion before the Draught would be finished.

Seven minutes passed all too quickly; the thoraxes were completed and bottled, and the Draught of Peace a perfect color and scent. She poured the Draught of Peace into containers for later sale, turned off her flame, and looked at the time on the clock.

Six o'clock. She'd brewed enough for one day. She picked up her jacket and notebook and walked over to the mirror, checking herself before going out for the evening.

The person that stared back… well, she was still getting used to that. She still had the long, aristocratic features and sky-blue eyes characteristic of her family, but there was a softness to them that hadn't been there a few months ago. She looked like a tomboy with her short blond hair; she'd been debating whether or not to brew a manegro potion to grow it out, but she wasn't quite ready for that yet. Her outfit was more of the same, a blossoming young woman who wasn't quite comfortable in her body; modest breasts and hips were covered up with a conservative jacket, dress shirt, and slacks. Her hands were like most other potioneers: slim, elegant, but utilitarian, with plain fingernails cut brutally short, and without any sort of ring or jewelry. The most feminine part of her outfit, oddly enough, was her shoes, simple patent-black ballet flats that she could comfortably slip on and off. Overall, she was well-kept enough to go out for an evening at the local pub for supper, and that was all she desired at the moment. She moved to the front of her potions shop, flipped the sign to 'closed', and locked the door, admiring the marquee at the front.

Druella's Potions. It wasn't what she was used to, but it was a life. She smiled with just a touch of pride at the sign, then made her way through Olde Street, the main drag of Toronto's magical district.

She couldn't help but notice the celebrations around her as she walked. People were openly celebrating in the streets, joyous at news too impossible to be believed. The snippets she was able to make out were fantastic enough. Magical Britain had fallen! Voldemort had fallen! All of the Death Eaters had fallen! The very concept sent her reeling. Hadn't the Expeditionary Force been menacing Southern France only the day before? She would need to get clarification at the Curling Broom pub over supper. As she was known to be an expat, she knew she'd hear the details soon enough.

Sure enough, the moment she walked in the door, the bartender, Bruce, greeted her. Bruce was a kind enough wizard, a gray-haired man with a round face and a clipped, barely-tidy beard. "Hey, Dru!" he called excitedly. "We've got a table for you over in the corner!" He guided her to one of the tables and grinned, placing a butterbeer in front of her. "The special tonight is a reuben sandwich with minestrone soup and poutine. Does that sound good, or do you want the usual bangers and mash and mushy peas?"

Dru smiled as she took off her jacket. It was good to be in a place where she was known. "The special sounds great, thanks."

"Okay!" Bruce nodded, his eyes alight. "Did you hear what happened?"

Dru blinked for a moment. "Only snippets, just something about Voldemort falling… what happened?"

Bruce puffed out his chest. "Those Death Eaters you were running from? Voldemort, Malfoy, all of them?" He shook his head, seemingly in disbelief. "Dead. All of them."

Dru's heart stopped for a moment. "Wait. All of the Death Eaters are gone? All of them?" She blinked. "How?"

Bruce shrugged. "They're still trying to figure that out, but… According to the French Aurors investigating the scene, apparently His Dark Lordyness had a magical tap on all his followers. Some assassin tried to kill him last night; Ol' Voldie pulled everything he could from his followers to survive, but, well… apparently Fiendfyre wasn't survivable."

"The Dark Mark…" Dru muttered absently, suddenly feeling very ill. "Oh, Merlin…" Unconsciously, she rubbed her left forearm.

Bruce frowned. "You okay there? Thought you'd be happy he was gone."

"I…" She took a deep breath. Sometimes, a slanted version of the truth was best. "At this point, I'm just happy to be alive, and stunned at the loss of life." She smiled wanly. "I knew a lot of those Death Eaters, after all. Even fell in love with one, once." Sighing, she rolled up the left sleeve of her arm, revealing clear, milky-white skin. "Voldemort marked his followers with what they called the Dark Mark, basically right here on the left forearm. It was a variation of the Protean Charm with a parseltongue trigger. Whenever the Dark Lord wanted to summon one of his followers, he would simply tap another follower's mark, think of the wizard or witch in question, and they would be called. If he wanted to summon everyone, he could do that, too." She let out a ragged breath. "That there was a magic tap on the Mark… wow."

Bruce frowned at her. "How do you know so much about it?"

She grimaced. "I… ran into someone who'd researched it while I was vacationing in France. Someone who was fighting against the Dark Lord, someone who wanted to take him down." She blinked in realization. "Someone who apparently knew how to take him down, take… take them all down." She shook her head in amazement. "Wow."

"Wow," Bruce agreed. "What was his name?"

"Her name," Dru corrected, then blinked. "You know, she never told me her name. We just… shared a night together, then ran into each other a couple of months later, when I ran into some trouble." She grinned ruefully. "I don't think she was the head of what was going on… but she certainly played a part."

Bruce nodded. "Isn't that the way?" He went back to the bar, and raised a glass, calling to the crowd. "A toast, my good wizards and witches! To those who risked their lives to take down the Dark Lord Voldemort… and to all those who died because of him."

Dru could certainly agree with the second part of the toast; she raised her glass in agreement. "Hear, hear!" she agreed weakly, then settled back into her seat as the enormity of the moment hit. She took out a handkerchief, and began to wipe her eyes.

Her ex was dead. No doubt, her unborn child as well. Both her father and mother were gone as well. As mind-boggling as it sounded, she was the last survivor of her family.

She wasn't sure why, but it still ached, even after how it all ended.

She'd tried to keep the secret as to what had happened in Calais. Unfortunately, her wife's legilimency was far better than her own occlumency. When her wife had found out about Calais, the first part of the curse had kicked in; within seconds, she'd felt her genitals shift and change, effectively turning the two into a lesbian couple.

Astoria, hormonal with pregnancy and incensed at her infidelity, had decided to complete the job.

She'd been lucky to escape with her life. Astoria had thrown hex after hex at her; she'd barely made it out of the manor. As it was, every Malfoy had their safehouses and secret stashes; she took what she could, and ran. Voldemort called incessantly using her Dark Mark, but she knew better than to answer.

The mystery woman, the one who'd cursed her in Calais, found her in one of those safehouses the next day. She said she could take off the Dark Mark; knowing her own life as a Death Eater was over, Dru agreed. From there, Dru had made her way to Toronto – a common stop for British magical expats – and began to rebuild her life, even as her body slowly reshaped itself, as female hormones wrecked havoc on her masculine frame.

She never thought that simple chance, a random encounter, a blown cover, would mean the difference between life and death. As mind-boggling as it sounded, she realized that almost everyone she knew in her life who was still alive she'd met only in the last three months.

She was the survivor. The only survivor. And that, only because everything had gone wrong.

And with it came one more realization.

There was literally no one else to tell their story.

She opened up her notebook and wrote a few words, an idea really – a book she now felt she needed to write.

 _The Inner Circle: A History of Lord Voldemort and the Knights of Walpurgis , by Druella Black._

Her idea written down so she wouldn't forget, Druella Black – formerly Draco Malfoy – closed her notebook and took a sip of her butterbeer.

Her manhood – her magic – her family – might all have been wiped away. But her life, her future, was just starting.

* * *

The lot screamed its emptiness to the world around it; while the rest of the world built and left the scar of its creation, this one place had been truly demolished, and not been rebuilt. There was simply no demand for it; it hadn't been in use before the explosion, and there was no demand to build afterwards. The city had simply cleaned up the debris and walked away.

Despite himself, tears began to fall down his cheeks at the sight. The hand that rested in his own tightened slightly; he looked into her brown eyes, and smiled.

"I hadn't realized it would do so much damage," she finally said.

He nodded. "We didn't have much choice." He shook his head in remembrance. "Merlin, things were so… so bleak, then. I mean… this was literally all we had left."

She smiled, and wiped a tear from her eye. "I know. When you offered me your cloak…" She shook her head. "I couldn't lose you, Harry. I couldn't."

"I understand." He turned around and faced her, his free hand running through her thick, wavy hair. "Why do you think I offered? I couldn't afford to lose you, either."

Her eyes twinkled; he could read a thousand meanings in her soft brown eyes. "Necessity is the mother of invention?"

He couldn't help but chuckle. "Where would I be without you…" He leaned close in to her; she wrapped a hand around his neck as they tenderly kissed.

Living for several centuries does wonders for one's kissing technique, he thought.

They broke off after a moment. A line he'd learned years ago came to mind. "So. I've been in the revenge business so long. Now that it's over, I do not know what to do with the rest of my life."

She chuckled softly. "Have you considered a career as the Dread Pirate Roberts?"

He smiled, and cupped her cheek in his hand; she leaned in to the touch. "Only if you can be my first mate."

She smiled. "Hmmm… I think I can get used to that sort of life." She reached up to grab his arm. "Shall we?"

"I think we shall," he agreed, and wrapped an arm around her. They walked down the remainder of the block, leaving the empty lot behind.

* * *

Author's notes:

This one was written slowly over the course of about three years. I'd work on it, toy with it a bit, put it down while I worked on something else, until it reached critical mass to the point of finishing the work.

Thanks to all the pre-readers for this, especially Ellen and Ucchan for their comments.

nightelf

July 3, 2017


End file.
